"Agreste? Adrien Agreste?" Alya repeats dryly.
Marinette swears she can see the sweat trickle down Nino's neck, though he maintains an impressively neutral expression in the face of Alya's impending detonation. His eyes dart over to Marinette, but she's not about to offer him any sort of saving grace.
"He never told me his last name," Marinette admits; but like the missing page of a book, the blanks start to write themselves full, the sensations of déjà vu start to gain definition.
She knew she'd seen him before. Those cheekbones don't lie.
"How long have you been friends with him?" Alya exclaims, jabbing her hand out to point accusingly at the massive poster spanning the greater area of the metro station wall. Black and white does nothing to lessen the intense gaze of Adrien staring back, eyes peering over the popped collar of his exquisitely tailored jacket with the distinctive embroidered butterfly of the Gabriel Agreste brand glittering on the underside.
"Since… A few years ago? That show I mixed for, the one in Florence. Since then." As if he was discussing the weather and not his friendship with one of the most famous and illustrious figures of their generation, Nino leans against said poster with total nonchalance. He eyes Alya with equal parts wariness and amusement.
"That was four years ago." This time it's Marinette who puts Nino in the hot seat, pinning him down with frown. "I know you were touring for two years after but- four years, Nino."
"It just never came up and it never seemed important enough to mention; plus we didn't keep in contact too often until recently," Nino shrugs them both off easily. His hands shove into his pockets, and the levity in his expression sharpens with an unusually hard edge. "He's just a person like anyone else, with the exception that his every step and move has been decided and scheduled for him since he could walk. You probably wouldn't even recognize him if he walked down the street."
Or if you walked into a flower shop, Marinette recalls with dizzying clarity.
And Nino was right. Even with the name, the connection hadn't registered right away. Though it was no wonder Marinette couldn't immediately place him when she first saw him; she'd only ever seen Adrien cut with angled shadows, his expression wrought older and harder, his silhouette rendered sharp and untouchable. He seemed more symbol than person, more icon than human; ethereal in the way that only airbrushes and good lighting can achieve.
The ads of him scattered liberally throughout Paris- and the world- bear no resemblance to the person she had laughed and talked with that blue rainy day. That Adrien had shone soft with gentle courtesy and endearing humour, had painted himself alive with smears of dirt and a bright marigold apron. When the bundle of large pink blooms that rested in the cradle of his arms matched the flush on his cheeks and the sincerity of his smile, he ended up leaving a much longer, much stronger impression upon her in that one instance than any of the glossy magazine photos she'd been inundated with growing up.
He had not been an Agreste. He'd just simply been Adrien.
That had been the point, Marinette realizes as her frown softens into contemplation when she recalls how Adrien had introduced himself- and how he hadn't. That had been his point.
"Well then what hell is he doing here instead of jetting off to who knows where?" Alya demands, casting a puzzled glance at the poster as the metro train pulls up on the tracks with a tired screech.
"Technically," Nino starts, unfurling a mischievous, if somewhat sheepish grin at them, "you could say he's always been here around us."
The flat stare Alya levels at Nino would've terrified a lesser man. "If this whole thing is a prank, there is no place on this green earth that you can hide where I won't find you."
His only answer is to hop into a compartment, his laughter trailing behind him. Alya follows close on his heels, another question on her lips. Giggles fizz up in Marinette as well as she slips in after them right before the doors close, but it's only the brave- or the foolish- who laughs in the face of Alya's threats.
"No seriously, of all the things he could be doing in the world, why the heck is he working at a flower shop?" Alya persists, her eyes trained on Nino hawkishly even as the train jerks forward. Her hand snags a loop hanging from the ceiling, providing an anchor point to steady herself as her body sways in rhythm to the train's current of motion.
"Just a change of pace, pretty much," Nino admits as he sits back comfortably on a seat. His arm slings onto the back of the seat next to him as Marinette slides into the spot. "What he told me was kind of personal. Not even for you will I spill my guts."
"Pity," Alya sighs dramatically. There's no bite in her words, just understanding with a hint of disappointment for missing out on a scoop.
Her eyes cut over to Marinette, but she has nothing better to offer. "I think the only thing I learned about Adrien that one time was that he doesn't have a favourite flower."
"Guess you'll have to help him find one, huh?" Alya suggests cheekily, looming over Marinette with an intent gleam in her eyes.
"Please go easy on the guy," Nino implores, his eyes trained on Alya. "He just needs more friends around him than me and Chloé."
"Ugh," Marinette grunts as the train jerks to a stop and she lurches forward, a reaction appropriate for both the mention of Chloé and her lack of balance. On instinct, Nino grabs the back of her shirt and Alya steps forward to brace her. Nonplussed, Marinette clarifies, "Even you probably aren't enough to balance Chloé out, especially if what she says is true and she and Adrien really have been friends since childhood."
The train starts forward again and Nino lets go as Marinette settles back, though Alya remains hovering protectively in front. It's futile to try convincing Alya that Marinette doesn't need the support; too many transit incidences have taught them both otherwise.
"It's true," Nino confirms with a resigned sigh. "You should've seen the way she looked at me when Adrien first introduced us. You should've heard what she said to me when she asked me why I was friends with Adrien. She's a brat," he concludes thoughtfully, "but she cares about Adrien. So I can live with that."
"Her tattoos don't actually react to Adrien, do they?" Marinette asks curiously.
"I feel like I would not have been able to ask that about her and come out of it alive," Nino replies dryly. "I can't tell where her bubble of personal space begins and ends."
"Just ask Adrien," Alya suggests. "Surely if his soul marks move for her than that should be answer enough."
Neither girl misses the way Nino tenses and hesitates. His arm withdraws from the back of Marinette's seat to toy with the brim of his cap in a nervous fidget.
Like a shark scenting blood, Alya is on him in an instant. "They don't, do they?"
"It's… well, uh, let's just say that for this one thing, the tabloids actually get this right about him," Nino gulps as Alya leans in closer, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at him. In contrast, Marinette crosses her legs and sits back, a bemused frown creasing her features.
"Really?" Marinette asks a touch incredulously. "You mean it's true, that Adrien Agreste actually has nothing on him?"
"Ask him yourself," Nino suggests as the train announces their stop. In the shuffle to get off the train and out of the station, their conversation rolls to a pause.
As they rise out of the subway and out onto the sun-soaked street of Avenue Rapp with its glittering iron rails and sparkling stained glass windows, Marinette eyes Nino curiously, wondering what he might have up his sleeve. He whistles as he walks, the tune hanging light and clear as silver in the air, matching an amused sparkle in his eyes that he doesn't bother explaining.
"You know it's bad form to just straight up ask someone whether or not they have a tattoo," Marinette points out. "Even though literally everyone has one."
"You're a tattoo artist, a soul marker, and the best one in Paris. Doesn't that give you some kind of pass?" Nino asks.
"I'm not going to exploit what I do to poke at personal information like that," Marinette says firmly even as curiosity tickles at the back of her throat and itches within her peonies shackled around her wrist. "Besides, asking someone about their lack of marks is a way more invasive question than asking what kind of tattoo they do have."
Nino's glasses glint as he angles his head down to eye Marinette, his eyes soft in understanding as he watches Marinette unconsciously rub a hand against her arm bared by her black crop top. After a moment, her hands bury themselves in the pockets of her worn pink overalls, hiding her tattoo from sight.
Undaunted, Alya does what she does best and goes straight to the source. She marches right up to the distinctive door of the Catmint Print with the 'CLOSED' sign displayed prominently behind the glass, and grabs the handle. As if sensing an opponent that should not be trifled with, the door swings open smoothly and easily before her hand, bowing out of the way to allow Alya to breeze right in. She moves in like a storm, barreling past buckets of violet asters and planters filled with vivid protea to arrow straight for a very bewildered and slightly alarmed florist shielded only by his marigold apron and a watering can.
Marinette and Nino trail in her wake, knowing better than to fall victim to her momentum as well. They halt to join the multitude of flowers in the shop as watchful spectators, their faces open with curiosity.
"Is it true?" Alya demands when she reaches her target. With Adrien looking no less confused, she continues, "You don't have a single tattoo on you right? You're as unmarked as the day you were born."
"Alya, oh my god," Marinette sighs, burying her face in her hands.
"You can't just ask someone why they don't have a tattoo," Nino reprimands her halfheartedly, knowing his words might as well be smoke for all that they affect her.
"Sure I've got marks," Adrien answers easily, acquiescing to Alya much in the same manner as the flower shop door. A gleam enters his eyes as he innocently clarifies, "I've got a few scars on my arms from parkour, some bruises from bouldering, and yes- I do have a birthmark on my butt."
Unimpressed, Alya challenges, "Proof or it's not true."
"Alright, no one needs to see Adrien mooning anyone." Nino breaks in, moving until he could wedge himself between the two of them.
His intervention diverts their attention, but Marinette's eyes rove beyond to drop down to Adrien's hips where his apron strings reach back to likely knot in a neat bow above his-
Someone clears his throat and Marinette doesn't even need to look up in green eyes to know she's been caught.
She doesn't know what's more embarrassing: blatantly thinking about his ass or blatantly staring at his groin, apron-clad and all. Subtlety had never been her strong point. If one could combust from embarrassment, Marinette's sure she would've died ages ago but this feels like appropriate grounds for an encore.
"Friends?" Adrien asks, his eyes never leaving Marinette's even as her cheeks pink up brilliantly and a sheepish smile crawls across her face. The question is for Nino, though it sounds like a tentative greeting to Marinette as well.
"We come in peace," Alya answers instead with a roll of her eyes. Her attention swings back to Nino in an instant. "You should know Nino, that the mark of a strong friendship is-"
"I don't think I want to hear the rest of that," Nino groans.
"Don't all friends see each other's butts sooner or later?" Adrien innocently pipes up. He casts a subtle wink at Marinette, all lighthearted playfulness. Despite her mortification, she throws a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow back.
Nino stares at Adrien. "I don't even know why I thought you'd need help. I'm just gonna let you handle… this."
Even as Nino steps back next to Marinette, Alya harrumphs, "If you're referring to me as something to be 'handled', I will kick your ass."
"I can't win," Nino sighs, throwing his hands up in the air.
This time Marinette does laugh, the sound teasing and warm as she bumps her hip against Nino's in solidarity. Taking pity on Nino, she says to Adrien, "We're to help you with whatever it is Nino said you needed help with."
"If you're here for the dirt," Adrien laughs, his smile bared to Alya, "you're in the right place."
The watering can in his hand tips up and swings around as he turns, pointing the way to the seam between the two folding screens that yawn open into the darkened back. The chorus of flowers rooted in their pots and planters throughout the flower shop watch, still and silent, as they pass by to step into the back.
Something about the frank vulnerability in the dark center of their eyes, Marinette finds, is strangely unnerving. Her hands creep into the pockets of her overalls once more, finding solace in the crevices tucked against her body, and her eyes stare resolutely forward on Adrien's backside as he leads them through the part in the screens.
He does have a cute butt, Marinette notes absently as she crosses the threshold, allowing cool shadows to drape across her shoulders. The apron ties knot across his lower back instead of tying up in a bow like she thought, leaving the long, trailing ends to swing in tandem with his walk like a tail.
The urge to tug at the strings is strong. Her fingers flex within their confines and root themselves firmly in place.
She'd definitely have a harder time explaining away that impulse than the irrational desire to eat a flowerbud.
Upon initial impression, nothing in the back area seems drastically changed since the last time Marinette remembers following Adrien to the back. Clutter still clots the space up into sections, leaving veins of open ground to carve through in small fountain in the corner still sits dusty and grey from neglect, and the table laden with wrapping paper, ribbons, wires, and tape still sits up against the screen, providing a horizon for the silhouettes of flowers on the other side to stand up from.
Second glance reveals the clutter to be wheelbarrows filled with young flowers brimming over the edge, and trays and troughs of potted plants crowded up on the ground. Tiny white stakes poke up from the greenery marked with specific names, matching larger signs that lie along borders of thick, blue tape dividing the area up. The rich scent of earth hangs heavy in the air, blanketing the unmade beds of dirt waiting to be filled.
The place is rather roughly puzzled together, but organized chaos is not a new sensation to Marinette. Growing up and helping out in a popular bakery and tattoo studio meant she was forever finding creative ways to be as efficient as possible.
Except any decisive action on her part is taken right out of her hands- or rather, placed directly into her palms- as Adrien passes her a small pot bursting with white anemone blooms.
"I feel like every time I see you, I'm giving you flowers," Adrien laughs as he steps back and selects a pot of blazing scarlet lilies to hand to Alya.
"I'm not complaining," Marinette replies as she examines the small starbursts of white petals glowing bright between the dark of her hands. Inky blue eyes stare back up at her, wide and delicate and fragrant.
"This isn't my usual kind of scoop," Alya remarks dryly as she hoists her pot to a more comfortable position in her arms.
As Adrien selects several small pots of aromatic sage and hands them to Nino, he says cheerfully, "If you're looking for fresh dirt, I'm afraid I haven't botany recently."
Marinette laughs over Alya's mutter of "He did not" with, "You're going to soil your reputation of being a cool guy at this rate." Her reply is tinder to the fire as Adrien completely lights up with delight.
"You're not cool," Nino deadpans with complete authority. "And he's definitely not cool." The pots in his arms shift, freeing a hand to ruffle through Adrien's hair as he heads towards a wheelbarrow.
Without missing a beat, Alya follows Nino over. The lilies in her arms flutter their long crimson fingers gracefully to Adrien and Marinette in goodbye.
"Uh, I haven't-" Adrien starts, his hand rising up to grab Alya's attention.
Greater forces have tried and failed to stop Alya; she sails beyond his reach with a simple, "Nino will tell me what to do. When you two have punned yourselves out, let me know."
"You know I don't pun." The retort is weak at best and Marinette knows exactly what Alya is trying to do. Looking up into Adrien's eyes, she amends, "Not usually, anyway."
His smile to her is a softer thing, the corners tugging back constantly like he wants to smile even wider at her. "Maybe you just need to be in the right company."
"Seems like you're my only company now," Marinette says, her own grin pulling up in a mirrored response. She doesn't miss the way his eyes dip down to glance at her tattoos for just a moment, but it's long enough for her to shift her hands restlessly around the white anemones spilling over the lip of her pot. "So- uhh, the back area looks. Nice. Better, I mean, than last time."
Something settles lightly on her shoulder. For a split second, she thinks it might be a butterfly; but it's only Adrien's fingers grazing lightly over the pink strap of her overalls.
"There's a method to the madness," he assures her, giving her a gentle squeeze before motioning for her to follow.
As he leads her closer to the white stakes and signs she noted earlier, jumbled words gain enough clarity and distinction for her to pick out sections labeled for snapdragons, lilies, milkweed, and catmint. Borders of tape try their best to contain the crowd of plants and budding flowers that populate every available space, and a few planters still manage to edge their way out.
"The plants were delivered the other day but the movers just put them anywhere they could." Adrien crouches down, his long fingers reaching out to pluck a placard labeled 'Anemone' out of the dirt. "Once everything's untangled, I can start planting them properly."
The anemones in Marinette's arms rustle as she crouches next to him and gently sets the pot down in the correct section. The thick, fragrant cloud of earth and flowers that perfume the air intensifies when closer to the ground; but this, too, feels a little like home.
"Ah, so that's why Juleka and Nathanaël aren't here," Marinette teases. "You want free labour."
"No!" The panic suffused in Adrien's voice is matched only by the way he lurches forward, his hands coming up to gesticulate frantically. "That's definitely not- Juleka and Nathanaël helped so much in clearing this area, and they've worked here for so long with me managing long distance, I thought they could use a way overdue break-"
"Kidding," Marinette laughs, bumping her shoulder against his gently and interrupting his rambling. "Silly, what are friends for?"
Even though there are few lights in the back and the pale, watery fingers of sunlight from the covered back windows don't quite reach where they are, warmth suffuses Adrien's cheeks, brightens his eyes to a vivid, verdant green, softens the shadows and edges of his face.
He must know how to smile; life as a highly sought-after model and actor means he knows his best angles, knows how to best manipulate his features to achieve the most desired effect. In the dimness of the back area, Marinette had expected to find more of the Adrien she'd seen in ads and magazines, with the sharp cheekbones and practiced affectation of lofty nonchalance. She had thought, in the shadows she'd find a truer representation of the Adrien she had grown up seeing.
He is brighter, in the dark. There is nothing about his current sincerity that is staged, and everything about his genuine pleasure that radiates a simple kind of hope she didn't expect to find in him.
And maybe that was the problem, Marinette realizes. He must be so used to people expecting him to be- something, or someone else, that being just himself must feel rather lonely.
"Can I ask you something?" she blurts out. Regret immediately presses in but too late, Adrien tilts his head and smiles encouragingly at her. She has feeling she could ask what colour underwear he was wearing and he'd happily answer her.
"Only if I can ask one in turn."
"Right, ok." Buying herself some time to gather up her courage, Marinette busies herself with plucking small pots and planters from the pile and checking their markers to determine where they need to go. With her hands sufficiently occupied, she asks as casually as she can muster, "Do you really have no tattoos on your body? Not even a small soul mark somewhere or anything?"
Voicing the curiosity didn't feel right; but then again, thinking it hadn't been very considerate to begin with. Being right at the heart of tattoo culture- and all the consequences that come as a price- means Marinette understands rather viscerally how important consent and privacy are.
And she had gone and violated both core fundamentals with a single question.
Curiosity may be the death of her yet.
There's no revulsion, no disgust, no anger that greets her though, only a frank, if guileless nod; and that, more than anything Adrien says, is what confirms her curiosity.
"None whatsoever," he says. "My father wouldn't let me, and I wouldn't have gotten as much work modeling and acting as I have over the years if I did have a mark." His hands bury themselves forcefully into the dirt, as if he could rub the stain of the earth into his skin. "Bad for publicity."
Bad for publicity, Marinette mouths in an echo, incredulous. She can understand the importance of maintaining an image. She's spent far too many years, dedicated far too much time, helped far too many people to ignore just how powerfully a single image can shape a person.
But to then have his own voice forcibly excluded from the person that he was cultivated to be? What does a man who is celebrated for being an exception, a literal blank slate, have to hide?
Blood pounds in Marinette's ears, magnifying her anger. She didn't get any more tattoos after she came of age, but that had been her choice, one that she's coveted her right to maintain ever since.
"Careful." Adrien's voice breaks through the haze in her mind just in time for her to notice his hand hovering over hers. Her fingers twist among the stems of several lilies, creasing the stalks into odd angles. Before he can touch her, she hastily withdraws, smoothing out the abused flowers in her wake as best as she can.
He glances at her expression and tactfully changes the subject. "I still need some flowers to plant when we're done."
Despite her misgivings, it's not her place to comment or judge, so she swallows her anger and buries the thorny pit at the bottom of her stomach.
"Maybe it'll be my turn to give you flowers," Marinette jokes weakly.
Adrien's smile hooks up to a side as he sets apart a planter full of catmint. "I know a great flower shop who'll give you an incredible discount. Practically free."
"Unbelievable." Her amusement shines through stronger this time, carrying the fuller weight of her laugh. "I'll get you someday Agreste, you just wait and see."
"Looking forward to it." His low voice practically purrs as he winks at her.
That's enough justification for Marinette to reach a hand around to his back and succumb to the impulse she'd been holding back. Her fingers tangle with the ends of his apron ties, and she gives a hearty tug along the strings. The yelp that startles out of Adrien as he lands back on his butt is but a ringing note for her to thread her laughter around.
"A dirty trick!" he announces, propping himself up with his elbows to look up at her.
No damsel in distress looked as good as Adrien Agreste lying on the ground with his clothes rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his face warmed pink with mirth. No wonder the cameras love him so. The temptation to touch him is strong, stronger than the impulse of pulling his apron strings. Reality rarely felt so unreal.
Her right hand falls out to help him up, peonies bared and watching along her wrist, and he meets her halfway, stretching his arm up and clasping his fingers gently within hers. His eyes trace her tattoos as she effortlessly pulls him back up.
His hand never strays from where she has offered herself, but the simple act of his fingers twined with hers electrifies her every nerve, searing from the tips of her fingers up to the length of her arm. Sparks coalesce, expand, then detonate beneath each peony stitched into her skin with breathtaking pain. Lightning crawls through her veins, seeking forks in her soft body to break forth from. It feels a lot like burning metal and a little like itching curiosity.
For a dizzying second, her heartbeat feels too large for her body, threatening to fracture her apart.
Then in the next eyeblink, the pain subsides, lightning dissolving into her body in currents of heat until her body regains stability and cohesion, until her peonies no longer burn, until there is nothing but the gentle pressure of Adrien's warm hand in hers. The slow and steady pulse of his heart beating through his fingertips against her palm anchors her back to him, back to the scent of rich, dark earth that fills her lungs with growth instead of the decay of burning iron.
Marinette doesn't know whether to drop his hand like a hot brick or hold on in fear and fascination. Her fingers involuntarily tighten around Adrien's as she glances down to check her tattoos, only to find them as static and dormant as the day she first got them. The deep pink blooms stare back blankly, impassively, betraying not a single hint of what she just experienced.
Her throat works to say something, anything.
"If you give a girl a bunch of flowers and she loves them, she must be a bunch of bees in disguise," Marinette wildly blurts out. As Adrien's expression twists into confusion, her brain yells for her to stop! but her mouth continues treacherously, "Because, you know. Bees like flowers. And I like flowers. So."
God, she can just hear Alya facepalming somewhere behind them.
"Is this a confession?" Adrien asks gravely. "Because I'll bee-leaf it when I see it."
Her face lights with a magnificent red glow as she hurriedly withdraws her hand, dropping Adrien's fingers from hers. She overcompensates and, without Alya or Nino to knowingly grab onto her, falls back on her butt, narrowly missing a group of potted anemones clustered behind her.
In role reversal, Adrien offers his hand with a small laugh; but Marinette is more than experienced in picking herself up from the ground again and again. She avoids his offer to help, avoids placing her skin against his, and pulls herself up to rest solidly on her knees.
"And I didn't even need to do anything," Adrien chuckles. He has no idea how true an observation that is. "I guess we're even now. And it's my turn to ask a question."
"Ask away," Marinette invites, eager to move the conversation back to a track where she can no longer embarrass herself. Her hands shake with minute tremours as she grabs at another pot in the pile. Fiercely, she wills herself to stop, to bury the incident to mull over later- or never. She forces the shaky heartbeat choking up her throat down, down back into the safe hollow of her ribcage.
"What's it like? To help people find their soulmates?" Adrien asks without preamble, his gaze trained attentively on her expression. There it was again, that faint edge of loneliness that gave his question the delicate weight of unfed hope. "Nino might've told me a bit about you," he admits as an afterthought.
"Only good stuff!" Nino's voice sails over to land between them, a prelude to his appearance at their backs. Beside him, Alya brushes her hands against her jeans, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows to display dark skin freckled with dirt. "Speaking of good stuff, we're going to grab food from the café a few blocks down. Want to come, or want us to get you anything?"
"Nah, I'm good," Marinette sighs as she lifts a pot of catmint up. The cool dark and the thick earth press comfortingly around her, soothing her singed nerves over. The tall stalks studded with dainty indigo flowers sway as she holds them up, stilling when her fingers weave and settle between them.
"I'll stay too," Adrien agrees. "Not really hungry yet."
"You two," Alya groans as she rolls her eyes. "Well we'll get something for you anyway. It's not healthy, skipping meals to work."
"Thanks mom," Marinette laughs. "Where would I be without you?"
"Nowhere worth telling, that's for sure," Alya grins. She brings a hand up to blow a kiss, instead sending a cloud of dirt and dust to spiral in the air.
A low rumble growls from Nino's stomach, prompting him to moan, "I'm going to start eating these flowers soon, let's go."
"Can't have that now, can we?" Alya hooks her arm through Nino's and marches to the light spilling through the divide between the screens. "Play nice kids, we'll be back soon."
Marinette waves after their backs, laughing as she watches them bump playfully into each other. It's not until they're gone from sight that she registers Adrien's silence. Concerned, she glances back around to him, only to find his eyes as round as saucers.
"Her arm," he whispers, gesturing vaguely towards his own in awe. "It just- where she touched Nino, it was glowing. Shimmering. Is she like, part android?"
His surprise is as much endearing as it is enlightening. With his astonishment, she sees Alya's tattoos with his eyes, new eyes, and finds them breathtaking in a way she hadn't thought since the first time she saw Alya's tattoos come to life.
"Alya is a special case. In more ways than one," Marinette explains. Her fingers trace the pattern in the soil, still remembering the design of it by heart. Her fingertips drag down straight, meticulously carving out parallel lines that run alongside each other to form a puzzle.
"Is that a maze?" Adrien asks curiously as he watches her.
"Circuit board," Marinette corrects, switching to her pinky finger as she draws the lines that run through Alya's hands. "Done with UV ink, so that's why you can't see her tattoos under normal light or daylight. You can see them under blacklight, but it's not the same as when someone touches her."
"Someone? You mean someone other than Nino?"
The question gives Marinette pause. It's not one that she or Alya have an exact answer to or explanation for. "Hers react to multiple people with different intensities. Big soul, big heart, big mind. She's the person who helps people find their soulmates. That sort of drama is more her thing; I just give people tattoos."
Pattern done, she dusts her hands off and leans back onto her heels to observe her work. The indents along the bed of dirt hardly has the same effect as Alya's tattoos pulsing into the visible spectrum of light, but the paths run the same length, seek the same journey, carry the same questions and want for answers. Wisteria hangs over the edge of a wheelbarrow, stretching down to join pots of marigold and catmint in examining the addition to the ground.
"You do so much more than 'just' give people tattoos. Alya's lucky to have someone like you," Adrien comments thoughtfully, rocking back until he sits comfortably on the ground with his legs crossed. He absentmindedly begins digging a shallow well into the dirt as he continues, "I sort of thought that being a soul marker must mean that you get to see the best in people?"
"They don't always tell me why they want something, or how they feel about what they're getting. Alya knows more about that kind of thing," Marinette admits, plucking a planter full of sage to sit by her side. "She digs into the heart of the matter. Literally. And there's no stopping her once she gets going."
"And that's not something you do?" The question is more pointed, but more tentative. Even without looking, Marinette can feel Adrien watching her, gauging where the lines he should not cross lie.
She pinches a browning leaf of sage off, crushing the deadening blade in her palm. A thick, aromatic scent spikes into the air, hanging pungent between them. "I see the raw in people, for better and for worse. I mark them so it's apparent to everyone else what and who they are."
"And who they could be to someone else."
The crushed sage in Marinette's hand sprinkles gently over her depression in the dirt, filling in the silence as she mulls over her response. Adrien's simple candor arms his vulnerability with strength; but the more she thinks about her own answer, the more raw and defensive her thoughts become.
"Here's the thing," she finally says. She still doesn't quite know what to say, but her mouth opens and finds the words as she forges on. "It's about closure, and so rarely do people get it."
Adrien's brow furrows, and Marinette knows that he still doesn't see it.
"Isn't it more about new possibilities?" he slowly puzzles out. "You never know who could be your soulmate. It could be the person you just passed by the street. It could be someone you'll meet in another country in a few years. It could be someone standing right in front of you."
Seated in the dark amongst enough flowers to submerge under, Adrien's confidence is easy to understand. Flowers blossom again and again, coming to back to life each time around after death. Everything is a process, always in a thousand different stages of bloom and colour; never in the permanence and finality of black and white.
Marinette's peonies itch as her fingers cuff around her wrist and twist skin around bone, stretching and distorting her tattoos. "And you could be wrong."
"You don't know that." Adrien's tone lilts slightly in a challenge, in a reprimand.
"I do. You do." Her fingers uncuff and fall open to frame her peonies, pointing authoritatively at them. "And you'd be reminded every day of that decision. Some tattoos aren't for show. Sometimes, they cover something up. Sometimes, that something is a someone."
Her hands fall back to the soil, her fingers spreading in a fan as she wipes the dirt clean of her drawing. Sage mingles with the soil until there is nothing but a blank slate left in her wake. Another silence follows, stretching long enough for Marinette to tilt her head back to peer at Adrien from under her eyelashes. A planter of anemones arch beneath his fingertips, stems curved over for their delicate white heads to droop down, their blue eyes peering dolefully at the ground. His frown creases in consideration, an expression open to her gaze but not meant for her. His green eyes focus blankly ahead, looking but not seeing as he turns something over in his mind.
"I think," Adrien says quietly, thoughtfully, "I'd be pretty sad to know that my soulmate didn't want me."
Marinette thinks of lightning, and the carbonization of fear. "Life isn't a movie."
Adrien's smile is a wan, pale crescent, heavy with wistfulness. "And I'm not acting."
"There isn't always a perfect ending," Marinette warns.
"Who wants perfect?" Adrien shrugs. His fingers dive deep into the soil of the planter, curling and cupping his hands until he can gently unroot the anemones from their pot. Soil crumbles from tips that peek out between his fingers, displaying silvery spider-web thin roots forking down.
With great care, he rehomes the anemones into the well dug in the earth. Their roots sink down gratefully into the new soil even as their stalks sway unsteadily from where they stand. Swiftly, smoothly, Adrien pats dirt firmly around the base, filling crevices up to blend the new seamlessly into the old until there is only solid ground from which to rise up from.
The full, round white petals sigh open a little wider, exposing deep blue nectaries that rise up as inverse stars against a silver white sky. The anemones glow bright against the dark of the earth, sink deep into the dark of waiting, root strong for the dark of new growth.
Adrien breathes it all in and sighs, "I'd just choose to be happy."
.
.
.
A handful of anemone blooms constellate across Marinette's desk, scattering over open sketchbooks and loose sheets of paper. Drawings done in pen, paintings illustrated in ink, and sketches doodled in pencil peek through from underneath. Tattoo designs wait to be addressed, but Marinette simply taps her pen against the table in thought, a metronome marking the rhythm of time.
The fragrant flowers carry the thick, musky scent of soil, mingling with the familiar aroma of ink and wood of Luck be A Lady. If she closes her eyes, she can see the dim back area of the Catmint Print, can still see the mountainous terrain of flowers, can still see Adrien offering her a bundle of anemone blooms at the end of the day with a thanks and a smile. The two places blur together in her mind, overlapping in double exposure.
Muffled thunder growls outside, carrying the heavy weight of a storm to bear down upon the night and prompting her heart to quicken in anticipation. Her nerves sharpen, waiting for that crack. A sharp ping from her phone announces a text instead, which Marinette guesses is Alya reminding her to not stay up all night working again.
It goes unanswered. A restlessness stirs the tip of Marinette's pen, seeking definition. She knows rest will not come until she finds it.
The rain comes quietly, then insistently, knocking knocking knocking incessantly upon the glass windows. They are old ghosts seeking entry, seeking sanctuary. Their busy chorus washes over the repetitive tap of her pen with erratic melody. The light, cool pressure of their presence slides over her shoulders, glides down her spine, soothing over the words that have been rattling around her mind from hours ago.
"I'd be pretty sad to know that my soulmate didn't want me."
Reality seems to bend around Adrien in a way Marinette can't explain. Truths that she understands don't fit quite right, as if his negative spaces challenge for reexamination, revision, and refit of definition.
Her pen roves over a sheet of paper tirelessly, trying to find shape and form to make sense of. Ideas and images leak out across the page but there's no satisfaction to be found, only a driving curiosity.
Her hand bumps up against an anemone and stills against the softness. This close up, her eyes easily find the wrinkles and imperfections veined along the white petals that curve up and cup the deep blue center that glimmers purple in the light. Marinette nudges the flower and watches the blue run along the indigo spectrum in a multitude of minute flashes, echoes of the rain drumming meditatively throughout the tattoo parlour.
Ink leaks at the tip of her pen at her pause, forming a growing spot stained on the page as useful as the rest of what she's drawn so far. Never one to allow a block to stop her, Marinette simply reroutes herself and begins to draw what she sees instead of what she feels.
Her pen skates all across the page, but the tactility of the anemone her eyes trace and her hand follows doesn't translate. There is something missing.
Marinette halts. She flexes her wrist and watch her peonies stretch and curve around her form, as alive as her body nurtures them to be. Her pen lifts, hovers, and settles onto the blank canvas of her left bicep, and begins to draw.
Blue ink marks her pale skin with graceful confidence, digging up lines and following grooves that Marinette can feel ghosting beneath her skin. Instinct guides her right hand into finding and charting out constellations of anemones over the sky of her skin, the kind of navigation that perpetuates the surreal sense of being removed from the process. She cannot see as her hand can with her pen, so she only follows the path it illuminates.
Time ticks, rain knocks, overhead lights hum, thunder rumbles, and the night slips on by.
Her shoulder arms itself with a cap of anemones clustered together, a perfect fit. As she pulls a table mirror out to inspect the full effect of the drawings wrapped around the ball of her shoulder trailing down to her bicep, Marinette wonders at how perfectly the flowers bloomed onto her skin.
She sets her pen down. Stares at her armoured shoulder for a lingering moment. Reaches to a place she knows by heart and pulls Tikki out.
Setting up passes by like a dream: one minute, she's washing her hands; the next, preparing cups of deep blue and thick, white ink to dip into. The anemones Adrien gave her rest together next to her materials, their wide, blue eyes curious and watchful.
She loads Tikki up, threads the needles full of ink, and begins to stitch herself together.
Tikki's needles sting and bite as white silvers under her skin and the anemones begin to take root within her body. It's been so long since Marinette's last felt this tender sort of pain.
She wonders if this is how it always feels like, the bloom of becoming.
AN: Links to Alya's and Marinette's tattoos can be found on my AO3 and tumblr.
In a stunning but unsurprising twist of irony, I missed paperskirt's birthday by a week and a day. First I was too early, now I'm too late haha. BUT STILL: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY DARLING DEAR, I love you endlessly!
I'm so sorry this took a while to get out! Homework really crushed down hard on me the past two weeks and I could only work on this in brief flashes; not to mention that, for a chapter that only had a simple three sentence outline, this just kept getting longer and longer and longer. I thought this chapter was going to be like, four pages max; instead, here is a whopping 16 pages for your enjoyment. Honestly, this started writing itself several times along the way! Although every time I went to write 'anemone', I kept typing it out the same way Nemo says it, which made for a trip when I went to go edit.
Thank you so much for the wonderfully kind comments and tags you guys have been leaving! It's really kept my spirits up and helped me push through a huge writer's block and bout of insecurity that I got stalled at in the middle of this chapter. Next chapter will hopefully come a little quicker, thanks for your patience and support :')
